Unexpected
by sunsetofdoom
Summary: There's only one reason I can't tell Isabella I don't like her.  And his name is Django Brown.


"Guys!" I ran ahead, seeing raven-black and forest-green heads through the crowd of kids heading for the lunchroom.

I grabbed my best friends by the shoulders, wrapping my arms around them both.

"So, what exactly was up with abandoning me in my hour of need in Geometry today, eh?"

My brother snorted and pulled away with a force that wasn't really sincere, rolling his eyes at me. "Don't ask me to help you cheat."

Ferb Fletcher: my older (step) brother, and partner in all my adventures- like last night, up until 3AM trying to find a chemically feasible way to convert geodes into petrol. He can be a bit of a tightass , and has picked up a scathing sarcasm from his friend Vanessa, but he's loyal and brave and everything I could ask for in a heterosexual life partnership. But even with bright green hair, strict martial arts training with his aforementioned friend, and what every girl in the neighborhood has told me is the most sexy English accent ever, he's still single, stoic, and sticking by my side no matter what. Now that's what I call brotherhood.

"It wasn't cheating! I wasn't asking for the answer, I was trying to get the question so I could solve it on my own!" I saw Isabella glaring at me, and realized that I just came pretty close to whacking her in the face; I tend to talk with my hands. Especially when I'm agitated. I removed my arm from behind her neck, concentrating on my brother now.

"You see, I was kind of sleeping, seeing as you kept me up all frickin' night with your insistence on the safety features..." I was giving him my infamous 'slick grin'; think Ferris Bueller crossed with Eddy (of Ed Edd 'N Eddy), and that's about it.

He shoves me off, brushing off his shoulders where I had been gripping. He's beginning to laugh, just a little. "I did not, you slimy little con artist. Do what I do: skip second period and head for the library to sleep."

"So that's why you're never in French!" Isa looked positively _scandalized_. "Don't you realize that you need foreign language credits to graduate?"

Isabella Garcia-Shapiro: my best friend. She's very much a leader, and kind of a control freak at times; but she's funny and smart, extremely resourceful and can pull a plan out of her ass in under ten seconds in even the most dire of situations. She's still about 5'7 to my 5'6, which irks me- damn my late-coming growth spurt- but it does mean that I still think of her as my sister. She's the girl that I can call a whore, and she'll just respond with another foul insult, which we'll continue tossing back until we have to leave with cheesily-overdone 'I wuv you's, just like me and my brother (well, when enough of his brain cells have shut down that he doesn't care about talking too much). Very much one of the guys... Or, really, not, as you'll see in a minute.

I facepalmed. "Hey, Goody-Two-Shoes, Ferb knows French fluently. He can pass the final, easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, y'know? He deserves some rest. He pulls more all-nighters than I do." In case he doesn't get the blatant enunciation on 'deserves some rest', I start nudging him in the ribs.

He looks embarrassed at this point; which is interesting, because the red color his face is turning kind of clashes with his hair. "Er, funny thing... I _used _to speak it fluently. Most of it I've forgotten by now. I pretty much bullshit my way through at this point. So, y'know, really, more like, 'difficult difficult lemon difficult'."

I crack up at the 'In The Loop' reference, and the expression on his face. He's kinda jerky and talkative today, a telltale sign that he's already consumed enough caffeine to kill a horse this morning. This is why my brother needs more sleep.

Isabella is standing right next to me, tall and proud as always, but I can see her sneaking glances at me from the corner of her eye, just enough to make me uncomfortable. See, I've known that she had a crush on me for nearly a year now- that is to say, I've known for a year. She's liked me in "that way" for over three.

Hey, what can I say? Puberty hit me like a truck.

Unfortunately, I can't tell her- that I know, or that I don't like her. Because when I finally hit puberty, and acquired the ability to see her making eyes at me, I started noticing girls more. There's nothing abnormal about that.

But I realized that I was starting to notice _guys _more, too. And Danville, or even the whole Tri-State Area, is notorious for being rather homophobic. Pretty much the only gay guy in the whole damn place is Bobbi Fabulous, and he's... Basically ignored, because he's an amazing stylist and he used to be famous and if anything actually happened to him the paparazzi would be all over that story like flies on an uncovered steak. Although every few months, I've seen that some teenagers will go over to his house or his salon and spray-paint "FAG" all over, in different colors. He doesn't do anything about it. If it were anyone else, they'd report it, and the police would help in a hearbeat. But not Bobbi; he "asks for it", aparrently. According to my mother. She's nice, usually, and she doesn't have anything personal with Bobbi. He does her hair. She pays him. What goes on in his apartment doesn't concern her, so even if she doesn't approve, it's none of her business.

Unfortunately, I'm her son. Meaning that it is, most definitely, her business. And she'd probably kill me in my sleep and blame Candace. Which wouldn't be hard to believe.

As I am working on this introspection, which I've been doing more and more lately, we are walking over to our normal table; Buford's the only one there, staring glumly into space as he munches, because Baljeet and Irving have Science Bowl meetings over lunch on Thursdays with Mrs. Nichols. I personally can't imagine trying to eat a school lunch, which is vile enough on its own, in a room reeking of formaldehyde and vinegar. But everyone has their things.

Trying to get the mental image of me, trying to eat my casserole before it eats me while being stared at by a preserved cow eye in a jar, from my head, my gaze travels across the room.

Eventually landing on a huge, huge problem.

A boy with brown hair, light brown eyes, and tanned skin scans the cafeteria for his semi-designated "group"; finding them spread out over several tables, he turnes to ours with an open smile.

"Hey, guys!"

_That's _Django Brown. He's smiling, and I feel my heart flutter.

Damn him. Damn him and his everlasting cuteness.

He is _the reason,_ the crowning epitome of why it would be a horrible, awful idea that would ruin my life forever, to tell Isabella that I don't like her. Because then, she might notice how I can barely talk, barely even breathe, whenever he's around. How when he sits next to me, I can't stop my face from turning ten different shades of red, from maroon to rose and back again. How when he's standing near me, I can't help but stare- and more than once I've caught myself drifting, leaning towards his slim form with my own, wishing just to get that much closer to him.

But I can see him walking over, and I feel myself blushing, my face only a few shades lighter than my hair at this point. Believe me, if I could control the crazy fantasies and the jitters and the butterflies whenever I see him, I would. I swallow, trying to keep myself under control.

My brother is staring at me. He knows what's going on. I haven't even told him, out loud at least, but he knows. We've shared a room since we were two. We have almost a twin-telepathy thing going on. (Even though we were born to different mothers, on different continents, three months apart. Just go with it.)

Ferb began to stand up. What the hell? He looked me in the eye, and gave me a smug grin. And then he turned to the boy walking towards us.

"Hey, Django, would you do me a favor? I have to go to the library. If anything tries to eat my brother, most notably"- he gestured to Buford- "_that_, could you take my seat so you could protect him for me?"

Traitor!

"Hey! How come you don't trust me to protect him?" Isabella looked at Ferb indignantly, from across the table.

"And how come ya don't trust me not to eat him?" Buford was just weirded out.

"Isa, you're on the other side of the table. I'm letting Django take my spot next to him. And Buford, you tried to hit him once. I don't forget these things."

That bastard. That evil, traitorous, conniving English bastard, I'm _so _short-sheeting his bed tonight.

He ruffles my hair as he walks off. I do my best to shoot a lazer through his torso with my eyes.

There are several moments of awkward silence.

Isabella does her best to catch my eye, playing up her "please, for me?" face. That I only used to pretend worked to make her feel better.)

I try my hardest to avoid both her gaze and Django's, who is now consistently eyeing me between bites of his whatever-the-hell-we-can-find casserole with a gaze that makes me want to melt into a puddle.

Buford does his damndest to deafen us all with loud, crunchy chewing of his potato chips.

Through all this excitement, I can hardly breathe. I can feel my classmate's body heat next to me on the bench, the tables so crowded that we're practically touching. This isn't good, and I need to get out of here before I do something drastic. (Like either a full-blown panic attack or just tackling and kissing the artist right here...)

_Shut up, brain. You're not helping._

I can't stand this anymore. "I forgot my katakana worksheet in the art room. I gotta run and get it. Isa, keep Buford from eating anyone, please." I turn. Almost gone. I just need to get to the door, without Django noticing how weird I'm being.

He looks up at me. He smiles, and I stare, frozen. I probably look like a deer in front of an oncoming car, but I can't help staring at his large, puppy-dog eyes, his beautiful smile...

_Shit_.

"Oh, that's good. I need an excuse to head up there and talk to Anderson about my extra-credit stuff anyways. Is it okay if I come with? I wanna get your opinion of this one painting."

"Sure. I mean, I guess. I'd like to see more of you. Your work. The drawings. You look good. I- uh- I mean. The drawings. They looked good. The- the last time I saw them. Which wasn't really that recent." Wow, is there an award for the most awkward speech to your crush ever?

Three seconds later, as he throws his lunch tray into the trash, throws on his backpack and grabs my elbow, I process what's happening.

I am going to be basically alone, in a room with a guy that I have a massive and precarious crush on, having to give my opinion on something that he's previously told several people is what "connects his emotional center to the outside world". And he will likely be standing very close behind me as I crawl around on the floor looking for a lost worksheet.

Right now, I either need extensive therapy, or a hug.

* * *

"Looks like Sensei isn't here right now." I look over at the (ridicuously good-looking) brunette, shrugging, trying and failing to look like I could care less. "Maybe you should come back next period."

He grinned. "You don't think you can get me out of your hair that easily, do you Phineas? I'm not leaving until you've found your worksheet. And you do realize you just used the term sensei?"

"I have Japanese at Central next period."

"Oh. Shit. When's the bus?"

"Eleven forty-five."

"And the time is?"

"Eleven thirty."

"Let's look."

"Let's."

I crouch to the floor below a pottery table, trying not to hyperventilate as Django watches me. He has no right to be so fascinating. No right at all.

Of course, I am actually still watching him from the corner of my eye. He's up at the desk in front, sorting through papers until he finds one, neatly folded, and unfolds it like it's made of solid gold; carting it under his arm over to me, he has a broad grin on his face. He's already refolded it, but he unrolls it as though it's priceless. And to me, it is.

"Check this out."

It's a charcoal sketch; it depicts a nose, and a mouth, with a single finger poised over the lips in a "Shhh!" gesture. The lines are very defined, and it looks elegant.

But the thing that catches my eye, is that the lips are partially colored in; and not just one color. The entire, six-color spectrum of the gay-activist's flag.

I start, just a bit. I've never seen a rainbow flag before- I mean, I've seen rainbows, drawn them, whatever.

But it's never been used to signify so much within those six colors. The people that stand, united, under the colors of this flag, know the exact persecution, the exact feelings of constant lying and secrecy that I have to deal with every day. If I could find anyone, anyone else, to stand with me under that flag... It wouldn't even have to be Django. I just need to know I'm not alone.

"Wow."

The anxiety in his face evaporates like an egg frying on the hood of a car. (Yes, I've tried it. No, I will not tell you why.) "You like it? I think it makes, I dunno, a statement, I guess. Silence in the face of prejudice. Something like that. What's it say to you?"

I straighten my spine out, wishing I could reach out and feel the ridges and lines where the charcoal stick had left its residue over and over, until it was a permanent, undeniable part of the paper itself. The rainbow, on the lips, was still in pastels, waiting to be traced over, over, over, until it was as strong and bold as any other flag of pride. Out of respect for his boudaries, I move no closer. Just like my brother doesn't like being touched by people he doesn't trust, Baljeet won't let anyone anywhere near his theories notebook, I can't handle my blueprints being grabbed at without permission, Django will protect his art from any and all possible damage, by anyone. It's precious to him, and since I care so much that it hurts, I can't stand to risk destroying something so valued.

Oh. Wait, he asked me something. Oh yeah.

"I think... It's something about... Not being able to confess something that's been eating at you. Something that you're secretly proud about but everyone else thinks it's wrong. So you have to stay silent- even when it's bursting out of you." _Subtle, Flynn. Nice job. Might as well be waving a red flag at a bull, the way you're flaunting this shit._

He looks at the drawing, then looks back up at me. "I've never seen that before. You think really well, you know that, Phin?"

I blush, again, looking down at the floor.

He rolls up his art once more, storing it under his arm with the utmost care as he sits down on top of the table I'm currently searching under, placing his feet on the chair next to my legs. I can hear his weight settling on the old, creaky table as he readies himself to speak.

"You know, Phineas, I wish we could've hung out more as kids."

"Yeah, so do I." Unfortunately for us both, my mother caught him, one day, making a passing remark on Captain Kirk's attractiveness while I was trying in vain to get him into SciFi. She called his dad, his dad called him home. He really didn't come over much after that.

"Do you think we could start making up for it now?"

Oh, good Lord I think my heart just stopped beating.

"Uhhhhh... What?"

"I wanna hang out sometime. I haven't really been friends with you since we were younger. I wanna know you more, I guess."

I realize that I've been staring at the same floor tile for a good two minutes, and pull myself up from under the table and onto a chair, trying to make the gesture look suave. It doesn't really work, but I do avoid creating a major incident.

"Like, when?"

"Is there anything special coming up?"

"Me, my brother, and Isabella are playing a few songs together up at the old outdoor stage on Saturday. Wanna come see me afterwards? We could do whatever we wanted. My curfew's been extended for the gig."

His smile is positively radiant, and I swear mine's gonna cut my face in half.

"I'd love to."

* * *

I was singing on the stage, guitar in hand, just like I used to when I was younger, when the only thing that mattered was making each day the best it could be. As my friends behind me began a solo, or interlude, or whatever, and I was giving my fingers a rest from their frantic activity by reaching out to the crowd, giving high-fives and clasping at hands, making a connection with each person in the only way I could, I noticed the throng was parting a little, allowing a single teenager through, up to the stage.

It was Django. I could hear him screaming to me, yelling my name at the top of his lungs, and I loved the smile on his face and the light in his eyes, and I reached out to his hand.

And as our hands touched, I felt him put something in mine. As I drew back, hoping to be ready in time for my next entrance, I looked at the small object.

It was a ring. Made of some sort of smooth stone, scuffed enough to know it had been worn for a long time.

I deposited it in my pocket, finding the right strings for my note once again with a large smile on my face.

And all while I was playing, Django and I never lost eye contact.

* * *

I was jogging down the rolling landscape, picture perfect under the almost-full moon, ring still in hand, casting my eyes about through beams of moonlight. I spotted a boy, sitting on the side of a hill with a sketchpad on his lap. He didn't look to be drawing, though; he was staring at the moon and stars. I could nearly hear his mind wandering.

"Hey." I was probably gasping for breath. "You busy?"

He looked up; he seemed pleasantly surprised to see me. "Kinda. I'm trying to work something out. I wanna paint the hills and the moon, but I need something in the forefront or it'll come out crappy and overly-detailed." He sighed, placing the small booklet on the ground next to him.

"Why would you need something in the front to keep it from being overly-detailed?" I sat down at his side, leaning over to see the vague outlines on his drawing.

"Cause if I can focus my energies on something intricate in front, I can get the backround to flow correctly on its own. If there's nothing else to channel my need for obsessive detail, it goes into the rest of the scene and makes it just a jumble of lines." He sounded as if he were finally articulating something he'd been composing mentally for a long time, much more confident than he usually did. Most the time, he was just as awkward as I was, (okay, so probably not that bad) but when he talked about his art... He knew what he was doing, and he let it flow.

"What were you thinking about putting in?"

"A person, I guess." He looked at the landscape, as if measuring for something. "Yeah. Probably a person. It'd fit."

I summoned all my courage, taking a deep breath. "How about me?"

He turned, wonderment reflecting off of the glinting gold scattered through the light brown of his irises. "... I'll need a reference pose."

"Over here?" I scooted a little ways down the hill.

Django laughed, picking up the pad of paper and pencil. "Yeah. That's great."

"Okay." I turned towards the moon, wishing I could find a way to tell him how I felt without running the risk of being lynched.

"Wait. Turn back around." I did so, hoping that he would give me some sign of how to act.

He looked very intently at the way I had positioned myself, and sighed. "Could you look over at me?"

I did, gladly. I loved to watch him draw. I did it in art class all the time. (A fact that I'm not nessecarily proud of, but oh well.) He just seemed to let his emotions, his conflicts, his essence flow from his arm, to the wood of the pencil, to the lead that was making masterful sweeps across the page.

"Raise your arm, like you're gesturing for me to come over." My arm pulled up, almost of its own accord.

"Like this?"

"Tilt it a little, so I can see your palm."

He continued, asking me a few times to reposition myself or lean to one side. I never questioned. For almost anyone else, this might be embarrassing. For me, it was a chance to watch an artist, a creator of beauty and a beauty himself, do his work, bring a part of himself to life within the outside world.

He looked at me, a half-manic grin on his face. "Come see."

I raised myself off the dewy grass, brushing off my pants as I hurried over.

It was of myself, sitting on the hill, resting with my arm behind me, the other extended to beckon the artist closer. The boy in the picture- he looked much too beautiful to be me- was, from the lighter lines around him, spotlighted by the ethereal glow of the moon. He had a vague look of longing on his face; of wanting something beloved to come nearer to him, but content to watch it while he could. It was a soft, loving look that spoke of caring and gentleness, and I knew it hadn't been exaggerated.

"Wow."

Django, seeing the wonder on my face- I've always been easy to read- looked at the page with embarrassment radiating from his body, and he cringed a little. "Wait, I need to correct some of these lines."

I pulled his eraser away from the eggshell-white paper that held the most perfect drawing of anything I'd ever seen. "Don't. It's perfect. Like looking into a mirror."

"A small mirror? With a different backround?"

"A photo, then. Don't be so nitpicky." I pushed him, playfully. Hoping he wouldn't notice, I left my hand resting on his shoulder.

He looked at me in confusion. "Aren't you the one who said that perfection was impossible?"

"You've officially proved me wrong, then."

I stare at it a while longer, trying to connect myself somehow with his vision of me; the drawing was infinitely more amazing. Finally, I reach down, tracing the lines with my fingernail.

"I look like I'm calling to you." I said it softly.

He glanced at me in surprise, like he thought the answer was obvious. "You were."

"You told me to hold up my arm, though."

He got that faraway gleam in his eyes again, almost like going into a trance where nothing mattered but the beauty of his craft. "Not with your body. It was with your eyes, your expression."

"Did I really look like that?"

The gleam was gone, and he was rubbing the back of his blushing neck as he stuttered. "I, ah, I don't think so. Probably just me, seeing what I want to see, you know how your mind plays tricks on you in the dark."

"What you... Wanted to see?"

"I always wished that you would look at me like that... Like you were calling to me. Like you wanted me next to you, with you." He was blushing.

Hell, so was I. But I was fighting with myself enough not to notice.

_That's an invitation._

I don't know that.

_He wants the same thing you do; he just can't say it._

Neither of us can. If I'm wrong, Mom would put me in a mental hospital.

_You're going to get caught eventually. You can't stay closeted forever._

I'd prefer that forever last until she has no legal control over me.

_Would you like to postpone your happiness until then as well?_

Ultimately, Django made the decision for me.

Laying his hand over mine, still resting on his shoulder, he looked at me with apprehension, courage, and above all, desire and love, as he asked me to sit down.

I did so.

And that was when he looked me in the eye and said what I had been thinking for months.

"Phin, I don't really know why I'm admitting this, but I really like you. Not as... As a friend, the way I'm supposed to, but as... Something else. I know you're probably not gonna feel the same way or anything, and I know I'm probably gonna get beat up if this gets out, but... I really wish I could stay with you, forever, and I'm not going to say it's love because I don't know what love is yet, but I bet you that it feels pretty close to this."

He looked down. I could see he was trying to hold back from letting himself cry.

"Please don't hate me."

I put my hand on his other shoulder.

"I don't hate you."

He looked straight back at me, and I did what is probably one of the more badass things I have even attempted in my short life.

I leaned forwards, as I whispered, "I feel the same way."

And then I kissed him.

His lips were soft, and sweet; I couldn't believe I was doing this. I could only hope I wasn't dreaming. I was holding onto his arm just below the sleeve of his t-shirt; his skin was a little rough from early-May outside activity- he's been painting outside more and more now that it's getting closer to summer. His hair had grains of sand stuck in it from going swimming earlier today, he tasted like mangoes and starfruit, and for some reason it popped into my head: this is my first kiss. And it's kind of amazing.

All good things must come to an end, though. He broke the kiss, staring down at me with large brown eyes that I'd never been this close to. I never realized he had freckles before- probably because he's so tan. I've gotta ask him where his family comes from.

But he's smiling like crazy, and he doesn't seem to be able to speak. So, I decide to change the subject.

I hold up the ring. "So... What's this for?"

He gives a breathless little laugh. "It's an old ring of mine. I thought you'd like to have it. It's hematite. It's supposed to increase intuition- that actually works better if you wear it on your left hand- and it used to be used as an amulet against bleeding excessively."

I think I was staring at him; still trying to process all of this in my, ah, current state, my head was spinning in circles, trying to keep up.

"Is there some other reason for the stone?"

He shifted. "Well... It's also a love stone. Said to stimulate personal relationships."

My grin became exponentially wider. "So, by giving me this..."

"Well, I wasn't planning on being _that _vague." He turned the ring, trying to get the inside of the band at an angle where he could see it clearly in the low light.

"See?"

There on the inside, in thinly-lettered gold paint, are the words: _I'm Yours_

I'm smiling. A lot. Best night of my life, hands-down. I nudge closer to him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders.

"So now that you've given me your ring, does that mean that I'm your... Uh..."

He nudged me with an adorable coy grin. "My...?"

"You know what I mean!" I'm blushing again.

"And you realize I'm going to _make _you say it, or else you're not getting an answer?"

"Fine! Fine." I looked up at him, still blushing, having trouble getting the words out. "Your... Your boyfriend?"

"Well, that depends..."

"Django!" I look up at him, half-jokingly reproachful. This is a little worrying, but I'm still giddy from the events of just a minute ago.

"Well, it does!" He gazes down at me, and I see his face suddenly become more serious. "Do you want to be?"

"Of course."

"Then..."

"Django?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to be my boyfriend?"

He smiles, under the moonlight, looking like he's giving off his own halo of brightness. He slips the hematite ring, complete with the hidden words painted on the inside, onto my finger, and kisses me softly.

"Definitely."

* * *

**I just realized that I forgot to put an author's note... Wow. That was very absent-minded of me. **

**Although this one is mostly for my deviantART fellows (I'm looking at you, SteveTwisp!), I decided to post it on here as well; there's no harm in a little extra exposure. I wrote this for several reasons:**

**A: THIS PAIRING IS ADORABLE AND IT NEEDS MORE LOVE... Even though that's pretty much the logic for all my romance stories. (See: Ferbella schtuff, my Phineas and Ferb crack-pairings forum... And my upcoming VanessaxIsabella oneshot... Yeah. Queen of Crack, much?)**

**B: I've never written a guyxguy relationship before, and in my mind, it gets done improperly A LOT. One becomes the woman in every way but genitalia. It's like they've turned it into a heterosexual relationship- which sorta defeats the purpose of a slashfic. So, in this story, I wrote their affections like I would a guy crushing on a girl; except this girl happens to have a penis.**

**C: (OH LOOK I MADE A SMILEY) I have pairing friends now. D-Teen, Steve Twisp, all us crack people in Phinjango Club. We're all nuts, and we were getting lonely. I felt a little obligated to pull my weight; and this is the only way I can do it. :)**

**So, yeah. Please no pairing flames; if you don't like yaoi, that's fine. But I prefer you not criticise the pairing; reserve that for my writing. And even then, make it constructive. **

**Reviews are lovely!**


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